


Topped Chef

by jenhoffman



Series: Topped Chef: Gail and Padma [1]
Category: Top Chef RPF, padma lakshmi/gail simmons - Fandom
Genre: F/F, Food, Food Porn, Gay Sex, Oral Sex, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-20 22:01:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30011583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenhoffman/pseuds/jenhoffman
Summary: A drink after a long day on set turns into something more... this is the Gail/Padma fanfic I thought already existed, but couldn't find on the internet.I do not know either of these women, plz don't sue me! :)Written all in good fun.
Relationships: Padma Lakshmi/Gail Simmons, Padma/Gail
Series: Topped Chef: Gail and Padma [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2207766





	Topped Chef

People liked to think that Padma didn’t get nervous. “Unflappable,” “Graceful,” “Statuesque,” all words that magazines attached to her name. Tonight, her heart thumped beneath her silken shirt. She could feel the sweat bead behind her earlobes. She hated this part.

“Jamie. Please pack your knives and go.” More than anything, Padma hated sending women at the top of their game home. A soft, warm hand closed around her balled fist underneath the banquet table. Gail. She leaned over and whispered in Padma’s ear.

“It’s okay. We made the right choice.” Laundry detergent, spearmint gum. Gail liked to chew half a stick after particularly garclicy four course dinners. Padma breathed in through her nose. The scent of her friend summoned momentary mediation. The tension in her throat relaxed. 

The five remaining contestants cried and hugged one another and the judges table sat patiently through the spectacle. On TV, you only see five second goodbyes but in real life everything moved slower. Padma glanced to her right. Bourdain’s eyes sparkled at her. _No thanks._ Tom Colicchio, transfixed on the farewell dragging on in front of him, rolled his eyes and muttered, “Not enough salt. I don’t know how many times I have to say it.”

When the final five finally left the room, the producers and their cameras followed. Padma exhaled and Gail instinctively let go of her friend’s hand, sensing the stress dissipate. Padma looked at her dear friend of a decade. Damn, she could still rock a scoop neck. 

“Babe, why are you staring at my boobs?” Gail’s black olive eyes shimmered in the halflight of the semi-abandoned studio, teasing.

“I— you look great tonight!” Padma offered. “I don’t know if I said that yet.” Her cheeks flushed. Why’d she feel so weird tonight? Unflappable Padma, embarrassed? Had to be jetlag. The cast and crew had just landed in Puerto Vallarta that evening. She already missed New York. 

Tom stood up beside her and stretched his stubby arms. “You know what we haven’t done in awhile?”

“I don't know, but I’m ready to get wasted,” said Bourdain, pulling a cigarette from his right breast pocket. 

“This isn’t 1996, Anthony. The producers aren’t going to let you smoke in here,” Gail scolded, ever the soccer mom. 

“What producers? They all followed the little guppy chefs off through stage right.”

“Fine, then give me one too.” Bourdain’s lip twitched faster than his eyebrow wiggled. Gail stood up and let him light her cigarette. “What were you saying, Tom?” 

“Honestly, I’m going to echo my friend Tony over here. We haven’t had a drink after work in— what’s it been— a couple years?”

“We all became parents and now we’re no fun anymore,” Gail pulled on her cigarette like a pro. Padma wondered if that’s where the rasp in Gail’s voice came from, even though she held the cigarette between her thumb and pointer like a joint. 

“I’m tired,” Padma sighed. 

“C’mon, Lakshmi!” Tom elbowed her, “Pretend it’s 1996 like these two. Where were you in ‘96?”

Padma’s mind flashed— twenty six years old, New York City, aspiring model, a different world. “I’m not sure you could keep up with me in ‘96, Tom.” 

“Is that a challenge?”

“Paddie, it’s too late. I called an Uber XL,” Gail said, one hand rigorously sliding around her phone screen, the other cradling her dwindling smoke. “One drink.” Gail smiled at Padma, eyelashes expertly fanned by a makeup artist with deft fingers. 

Padma bit her lip. “Fine.” Gail squealed like a teapot abandoned on a burner. “Jesus Christ, you don’t need to scream. Just one drink, okay?” Gail nodded. 

Outside, the air hung dense and sodden. Mexican summer stuck to them like an extra layer of clothing. Padma dawned her sunglasses, despite the sun having slipped behind the glittering ocean hours ago. “This is not an XL,” Gail folded her arms and smacked her gum. “I guess I’ll take bitch seat.” Tom climbed in, Gail followed, and Padma folded herself neatly as a napkin in afterwards. Tony took the front seat. If anyone could chat up a driver, language barriers aside, it was Antony Bourdian. The uber sped off toward the Zona Romantica, where all the Top Chef judges had opted to stay. The cobblestone streets passed beneath their eyes out the window. It was as if traffic laws had been agreed upon telepathically by the drivers. Not a stop sign to be found, but their car seemed in sync with its cohorts, each vehicle slid like beads on an abacus. 

Gail squeezed Padma’s leg and leaned in. “Why are you so quiet tonight, hon?”

“I think it’s just jetlag. Or the fact that I’m closer to 50 than 40. Or maybe it’s because we just ate five four course meals.”

“Oh c’mon, you barely ate any of the desserts.”

Padma grimaced. “Ugh, yikes. Do you remember that macaroon?” 

“Yes, I’ve had better at Bubby’s Passover Seder. And she uses a mix out of the box.” Padma giggled. If she had a nickel for everytime Gail brought up Seder, she might be able to retire. “I don’t think I’ve sat in a middle seat in a decade,” Gail continued, wiggling her tight skirt further down her thighs. Padma noticed she wasn't wearing stockings. Her pale legs crossed themselves awkwardly in the dim light of the car.

“Are we there yet?” Tom piped up. Tony stopped speaking broken Spanish to the driver long enough to grin at Tom in the rearview mirror. 

“Almost, mi amigo. Ah! Here we go.” The car slowed in front of a bar smothered in patchwork neon lights. “Gracias señor.” Tony slipped the driver a $100 bill as the whole crew piled out of the Uber. The bar was alive with mariachi music and sported a distinct lack of tourists. Everyone here yelled, laughed, and sang in Spanish. Padma was grateful when the patrons flocked toward Bourdain. 

“Good thing we brought a real celebrity with us,” Padma said, removing her sunglasses and following Gail to a corner booth. Tony and Tom lagged behind, carting a large pitcher of light brown beer and four tequila shots.”You said ONE drink, Gail,” Padma shot at her friend.

“Well, _I_ said no such thing,” Bourdain laughed, pouring the beer into four empt glasses. “Plus, Corona is practically water. Everyone knows that.”

Tom raised a glass. “Stay hydrated!” All four clinked pint glasses and sipped. Ice cold, thank God. 

“Tom, I feel like I specifically said no tequila shots,” Gail scrunched her nose and crossed her arms again. “You know I’m a gin girl.” 

“I believe in you Gail!” Tony jiggled his shot glass so that it almost spilled. “Have some salt.” He held up a shaker and Gail licked the back of her hand. Her barbie-pink lips shined like a new car. Padma watched Gail dust the wet slick of her hand in shitty bar salt and offered her own knuckles. 

“Salt me, baby!’ 

“Woo!” Gail’s eye contact barely faltered as she shook a small snow storm onto the crease between Padma’s thumb and forefinger. 

“Salude. To food and booze!” yelled Tony holding up his shot glass. 

“And friends!” Padma added, eyes sparkling with scenercity. 

“WAIT, wait, we’ve got to do it the Mexican way,” said Tom, almost business like. He slammed his shot glass on the table. “Arriba!” He lifted it as his comrades choroused:

“Arriba!”

“Abajo!”

“Abajo!”

“Al centro!”

“Al centro!

“A dentro!”

“A dentro!” They drained their glasses and nearly gagged. Padma was endlessly grateful for the salt. 

“Jesus Tom, can you spring for limes next time?” croaked Gail, raspberry red. “Really needed a hit of acid,” she continued, mocking her own oft-used criticism of the Top Chef contestants. 

“Wait, who’s got acid?” asked Tony, deadpan. 

“Yeah, Tom, I have to agree with Gail Simmons of _Food and Wine_ Magazine over here. This shot was lacking acidity and imagination. Please pack your knives and go.” Padma glared at him with the same distanced precision she used on the show itself. Tom broke immediately, eye watering with guttural laughter. 

“Fuck Lakshmi, can a guy catch a break once we’ve clocked out?”

“Abajo, al centro, al centro, a dentro was peak nerd, Tom. You deserve backlash for that corny display.” Bourdain pulled another cigarette from his front pocket like a magician materializing a chiffon handkerchief. There was an anxiety in the way his leg bounced under the table as if the beer and shot were a lit fuse. “This is Mexico. I should be able to swing a gato and get some cocaine in here, right?”

“And that’s my cue!” coughed Padma, standing up. 

Gail’s face fell. “You’re not going home alone. I’ll come with you. Buddy system in foreign countries, right?”

“I don’t wanna make you come,” said Padma. 

“You’re not making me do anything. Tom, can you babysit Tony? I don’t want to see any headlines on my iPad tomorrow. _Colicchio, Bourdain, and Mexican Cocaine._ ”

“I’ll make sure we stick to beer,” said Tom, looking slightly uneasy, like he’d been left to oversee and starve a hungry bear. Bourdain held his hands up.

“Ladies, I was totally kidding. I do not need cocaine to have an amazing evening. I’m already having one.”

“I know, I know,” said Gail, though Padma did not feel like coddling him. “Us girls have an early morning. We’ve got the quickfire challenge at like 9 AM.”

“Pleasure as always, Tony,” Padma held out her hand like a monarch and Bourdain quite literally kissed her ring. “Tom, please behave.” With that, she slid her sunglasses over her eyes, shrank her shoulders to try and disguise the conspicuousness of her 5’9” frame, and snaked through the bar toward the sidewalk.

“Boys,” said Gail, suddenly besider her, rummaging through a heavy purse and unearthing a lipstick tube. 

“Why are you putting on lipstick?”

“Nervous habit.”

“Why aren’t you using a mirror?”

“I don’t see one, do you? Maybe I should go ask Tony. I bet he has a mirror.”

Padma took the tube from Gail’s trembling fingers and pressed it gently to her friend’s lips. “There. Now you’re all dressed up with nowhere to go.”

“I’m going home with you! I’m not letting you walk to ride by yourself.”

“Uh huh, And when you drop me off, how are you going to get home without going alone?”

Gail waved Padma off. “We’ll cross that bridge...” Her thumb once again dancing furiously around the frozen pond of her phone screen. “Fuck. There are no Ubers, no Lyfts.”

“Well, I’m in the Zona Romantica. It can’t be that far from here,” said Padma, checking her phone in turn. “Ha! It’s three blocks. It’s an Air BnB.”

“Of course it is. God forbid you spend a week without a chef’s kitchen.” 

“I’m assuming you chose the hotel?” Padma smirked.

“Obviously. Room service, fresh sheets every night, dry cleaning? C’mon Lakshmi, you think I ironed this skirt?”

“This way,” said Padma, waving Gail in the direction of Los Muertos Beach. They got about a block before Padma’s stiletto clipped a crack in the sidewalk. She stumbled into Gail, who caught her around the waist. 

“Jesus, between those sunglasses, those heels, and these cobblestones, I’m surprised you don’t need a palanquin.”

“What the fuck is a palanquin?”

“You know, the thing all the strong men carry a queen in on?”

“Oh yeah, I had one of those at my wedding.”

“You did?” the color drained from Gail’s cheeks; she sensed she’d made some sort of cultural faux pas. 

“No, who the fuck do you think I am, Cleopatra?”

Gail breathed a sigh of relief. “You are far more beautiful than Cleopatra, hunny,” she mused, imperceptibly blushing in the dark. 

The air was still thick but a cool breeze wove its way through the humidity like a blue ribbon. Periwinkle blue, floating from a May Pole, lifting the weight of the heat off their shoulders as they walked another block. Their noses filled with the smells of a hundred street food carts— spices cut with hints of sea air gaining strength with every step. “How much further?”

“Counting steps?”

“No, just bracing myself for how many times I’ll need to catch you. Can you take these dang things off?” Gail snatched the aviators off Padma’s face and stuck them in her own hair. 

“Be careful with those.”

Gail stuck her tongue out. “I’m sure they cost more than my car.” Padma rolled her now unsheathed eyes and pointed up ahead. 

“Here we are!” 

“No fucking way.” Gail’s eyes widened in delight as the women found themselves in front of a vibrant teal colonial festooned in a bright cream trim. “Is this all yours?”

“Yep! Wanna come in?”

“Of course I do!” So Padma touched her phone to a keypad and dialed a few numbers. Gail heard the satisfying click of the lock. 

“Right this way,” Padma pushed the heavy door forward and as Gail walked by, she got a whiff of vanilla and cedarwood. They’d just spent fourteen hours in ninety degree heat and Padma still smelled like a boutique on Rodeo Drive. She flicked on the lights and Gail nearly gasped but she managed to catch it just behind her lips. The room was enormous— glowing maple wood floors, a magnificent kitchen to the right, and straight ahead, the biggest window she’d ever seen pointed directly at the ocean. It was like being front row at Radio City Music Hall but the waves were the Rockettes. Gail beelined for the window and realized it was actually a massive sliding screen door. Just beyond it, a crystal blue infinity pool. 

“Fuck what I said, my hotel is a shit hole.” 

Padma grinned and shook her head. She busied herself pouring chilled orange wine from the double-doored fridge. “Want a glass?”

“Obviously. Did you know I’m obsessed with orange wine?”

“Gail, I do follow you on Instagram.”

“Am I that obnoxious about it?”

“No. But I think you have great taste so I asked my assistant to get a couple of bottles.” 

“You know what’s good with orange w—”

“Way ahead of you.” Padma retrieved a bowl of castelvetrano olives and plopped them on the kitchen island. 

“Wow. Are you in love with me?”

“It’s your lucky night,” Padma laughed and Gail’s lip curled as she popped an olive in her mouth. She sipped the wine. Briney, bright, robust, a hint of bruised fruit. Gail let the olive linger like a jawbreaker as she took in the impersonal but thoughtful decor of the Air BnB. Old books, likely seldom opened, dotted the rustic shelving, and blankets were rolled sushi-like inside of huge rattan baskets. Box-new white mugs with slogans like “Begin,” “Breathe,” and “Relax,” lined a shelf over the sink. She sighed.

“Hey, I’m sorry about making you go out tonight. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.” 

“It’s okay. Not your fault I got uncomfortable.” Gail looked at Padma. Underneath her pristine exterior, there were infinite layers of loss, love, and rusted pride. 

“Can I make it up to you?”

Padma lifted one eyebrow, a personified question mark. “Maybe.”

“Maybe what?”

“I have a surprise. But you have to come to the pool first.”

Gail’s jaw slackened. She clutched her invisible pearls. “Padma, I don’t have a bathing suit.”

“Who gives a shit? Just wear whatever you’ve got on under there.” Gail was quiet for a few seconds, sucking on another olive. Padma tried not to let anything show on her face, so she swirled her wine in circles to hide her worry. 

“Fine,” said Gail, spitting out her pit. “You first.” 

Padma downed the rest of her wine in one gulp. “Well, since you’re here, I won’t have to do Bikram Yoga to get my dress off.” She saddled up to Gail and turned around. “The zipper’s kinda tricky.” Gail put her wine glass down a little too hard. She exhaled when the crystal survived the smack against granite. Gripping the zipper, it moved so smoothly it could have been buttered. 

“Yeah, super tricky,” she joked. Padma’s silken black dress hit the floor without a sound— snow falling on a window sill, a kimono sliding down a dancer’s arm. Her breasts were held up by paper-thin black lace, hips wrapped in underwear with bows the color of midnight. Gail felt the back of her ears get hot. Her mouth was dry.

“Now you. Spin around.” Padma held Gail’s shoulders gently and turned her slowly. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah! It would take me fifteen minutes to get out of this top on my own.” Vanilla. Cedarwood. The sound of another zipper. 

“Do you need help with the skirt?”

“No, I got it.” Gail turned around and shimmied out of her skirt a little awkwardly, praying her spanx didn’t peel off with it. At least they were black.

Padma raised her perfect sloping eyebrow again, amused. “I feel overdressed.”

“Ha ha. Look, not everyone is an actual supermodel.” Gail crossed her arms over her stomach, embarrassed that she was embarrassed. It was just her friend! It was just Spanx!

“You look perfect. You are perfect. Fill up, let’s get in the pool. It’s almost time.”

“Time for what?”

“You’ll see, you’ll see.” Padma practically skipped toward the sliding door. A thong. Gail watched her _People-Magazine_ ’s-Sexiest-Woman-of-the-Year-best-friend’s ass bounce up and down as she scampered barefoot across the floor. Gail followed Padma outside with as much grace as she could muster while holding two glasses and the half-gone bottle. The air was cooler, but still plenty warm to stand half-naked on a private balcony. The night sky buzzed with flickering stars. There was still light pollution, of course, but not like New York City. Padma and Gail both spent months of every year staring up at empty skies.

“Get in!” 

Gail looked down and Padma was buzzing brighter than all the constellations. Cassiopeia incarnate. Her teeth were like a galaxy, the light in each eye its own moon. Gail was maybe a little tipsy. She slid into the pool and the cold water shocked her body. She felt alert again, the textured plaster rubbing like pumice under her toes. 

“Any minute now,” said Padma, taking a slow sip of wine. “Look to the Northwest by the Marina.” Gail’s eyes locked on the horizon. 

“I don’t see anything.” she waited. “Oh, shit! Is that a pirate ship?”

Padma cackled. “Yes, look! They do it every night.” Fireworks went off above the distant sails. Bursts of red, green, and gold. “Can you imagine? Every night. My own little show.”

Just then, Gail looked at Padma. Her eyes were full of sparks. 

“Padma.”

“Gail.”

Their lips collided like a hammer on an anvil. The kiss was hard, long, and warm. Gail’s tongue found the inside of Padma’s mouth and Padma put a palm on the nape of Gail’s neck, pulling her hair gently. Gail’s hands slid down Padma’s ribcage to the bows in her hips. She pressed her thumbs just above the pelvic bone. Padma moaned and Gail bit her lip in response, gently and then harder until Padma came up for air.

“Fuck. I want you so bad,” Gail whispered, barely audible above the crashing waves. “How did this happen?” Her chest felt like a hundred hummingbirds. 

“What will Jeremy think?” said Padma, the hot guilt of remorse braiding itself with the twisting ache of desire in the pit of her stomach. 

“Don’t worry about him. I promise I want this.” The tension was good torture. Gail’s thumb traced Padma’s pouty lower lip as she pulled her face in closer. Padma’s tongue wrestled with hers and Gail could almost feel that same tongue between her legs. 

“Let’s go inside. Now. Please.” Gail dragged her body away from Padma. It was like pulling two heavy magnets apart. She lifted herself up out of the pool and wrapped a towel around her chest. Smoke from the fireworks’ absence hung in the air like a ghost. 

“Where’s the bedroom?” 

Padma followed Gail out of the pool and pulled her close. The fluffy towel pressed between both of their torsos. Padma kissed Gail’s neck, shoulder, ear. Gail’s muscles contracted and Padma felt her clench.

“It’s to the left of the kitchen. Follow me,” whispered Padma before nibbling Gail’s earlobe. She led the way. Her long, dark curtain of hair dripping all over the waxed hardwood. Gail watched Padma walk. Every surface was her runway, even the crooked cobblestones outside. Padma was a living work of art.

Gail dried herself as she walked, careful not to slip in the puddles left in the wake of Padma’s locks. Vanilla still clung to Padma, who held open another door. 

Gail dropped her towel and pressed into Padma’s body, pinning her to the wall. She traced her fingertips along Padma’s collarbone, over her breasts, and down her stomach. Her right hand reached around Padma's back, and with the deft snap of her fingers, Padma’s bra fell to the floor. There they were: two round, gorgeous tits. Gail half-genuflected in worship, wrapping her lips around Padma’s nipples, one at a time. She sucked them gently until both grew hard. In physics, a state of matter is one of the distinct forms in which matter can exist. Padma’s nipples were solid. Gail felt like a physicist. 

“Get on the bed,” commanded Padma. “Do you mind if I leave the small light on? I want to see you.”

Gail nodded, lost for words. Padma pushed her down on the bed and peeled Gail’s Spanx off like a candy wrapper, easier than Gail thought. She threw the wet spandex against the wall and her pointer finger pressed against Gail’s violet underwear. She teased her, stroking up and down. Gail sat up and kissed Padma again, her mouth blue-printing what she wanted Padma to do to her clit. Circles, in and out. Padma seemed to nod in understanding. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Padma moved her head down Gail’s body, her hands finding and squeezing Gail’s breasts. She ripped the meddlesome bra off and Gail moned, perhaps half-mourning the lost longeraie. Her pulse quickened when Padma’s hot breath reached her crotch. Padma’s fingertips tip-toed over Gail’s underwear and then slid beneath them. She bit the inside of Gail’s thigh. 

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” she whispered, slipping two fingers inside of her friend. She curled them slowly, pantomiming a “come hither” motion with her pointer and middle digit, the base of her palm rubbing Gail’s clit. 

Gail moaned again. “Kiss me.” Padma lept up Gail’s body, but kept her hand pumping rhythmically inside her pussy. The kissing devolved. Their mouths no longer cared for technique or finesse. It was passion and want. “Please,” whispered Gail. 

“Please what?”

“Please go down on me.”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Padma wriggled southward and without removing her hand from inside of Gail, she pulled Gail’s underwear down far enough so that Gail could kick them off. With her path clear, Padma plunged her face between Gail’s legs and licked her softly, her fingers still beckoning, searching for the mythical g-spot. She heard Gail gasp. She moaned into her vagina, her lips carefully circling Gail's clit. Round and round. 

“Fuck, I’m going to come.” The pressure built inside of Gail compounding with every flick of Padma’s meticulous tongue. “Don’t stop!” Seeing Padma’s wet hair between her knees made Gail feel regal and dangerous. Padma could feel Gail swelling beneath her mouth. Her whole body tightened around Padma’s fingers. The muscles trembled — Gail’s contorted body shuddered violently. “Fuck!” Padma felt the aftershock of orgasm on her knuckles, which she pressed firmly inside until the shaking stopped. 

Padma stood up and slipped her panties off. She climbed on top of Gail and put a finger in her mouth, then kissed her, lips parted. Gail tasted herself. “Could use a hit of acid,” she quipped and Padma fake-slapped her cheek. Gail licked her top lip. “C’mere,” she pointed to her dimples. “Have a seat.”

Padma straddled Gail’s face and gripped the headboard. Gail’s mouth felt like a miracle, her nails dug into Padma’s ass cheeks. She pictured Gail’s classic jawline hard at work below her. _Fuck she’s hot._

Padma slipped up and down against Gail’s tongue, riding her slowly like a merry-go-round. She was so wet. It was excruciating in the best way. “I’m close. I want to see you.” 

Gail squeezed Padma’s thighs and guided her dismount. She topped Padma on the bed. “Can you see me now?” She slipped her fingers inside Padma. “I want you to touch yourself.” The rasp of her voice sent chills through Padma who put two fingers between Gail’s perfect teeth. She sucked them until they were slick. Padma reached down and found her own clit. “Like this?”

“Just like that baby.”

Padma moaned and Gail fucked her slowly at first. “Is this okay?”

“More fingers.” Gail slid another finger in and massaged Padma until she was dripping. “Harder!” Gail pushed deeper, over and over until Padma’s whole body seized. She screamed with joy. The release was immense— a levy breaking, a body letting go. 

Gail fell into Padma’s arms and they held each other. The ceiling fan spun above their heads. “Can I stay the night?” Gail’s eyes were deer-like in the semidarkness. “Or do I need to pack my knives?”

“Don’t go.”


End file.
